my body is a cage
We were running late, so we ran into the Orpheum theatre and up to the second set of doors on the right. "You've got a few minutes," the usher advised us.
"A few minutes," I echoed. There was one place I wanted--nay, needed--to visit before we found our seats. But before I knew it, we were already through the doors and being led down the aisle to our fifth-row seats. Despite the rumblings of my gut, we were going to have to wait for intermission to use the bathroom. So long as my gut could keep quiet, things were going to be okay.
Of course, when it's full, my gut can't keep quiet. Gurgle! Rumble! Roar! Grumble! Ooof! Shplotnik! I'm trying to enjoy this, the opening night of the VSO's 2008 Season, but my gut seems intent on being the gastrointestinal equivalent of Aimee Mann by way of Don Martin. Hush hush, keep it down now, voices carry, I thought to myself. Meanwhile, Manday seemed to be chuckling at something--was it me? My gut? If I weren't so wrapped up in my body's noises and this weren't such a classy place, I'd have started quoting Joe Pesci in Goodfellas. Instead, I tried to focus on the Orchestra-as-accompanied-by-my-gut.
When intermission came, I wanted to race up the aisle and into the bathroom. What actually happened was a traffic jam of the elderly, caning and shuffling their way up the aisle. Yeah, yeah, I know, help the aged, you're going to be that old some day--but my gut wanted relief as soon as possible, and my mouth needed hydration. Miraculously, I managed to make it up the aisle, into the line for the loo, into the stall, and to the concession stand and back to my seat before the bells rang for the final time and the doors closed.
And then, just as Bramwell Tovey was rambling on about Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet suite, my gut started to complain again. It was as if it had declared, "Loud and discordant? I'll show this Prokokiev composition loud and discordant!" A shame, because I was looking forward to this, and now what I was really looking forward to were the mandolins at the halfway point. I enjoyed the suite, yes--but feel that my gut ruined the experience somewhat. But what doesn't it ruin?
Throughout the suite, I wondered why my gut hated music so much. After I got my diagnosis, my gig-going stopped. As most of my money went towards meds, I stopped buying records--or at the very least, I didn't buy nearly as many. I began to think that maybe it was a good thing that My Bloody Valentine didn't play a date here on their reunion tour. But then I remembered that whatever would have happened at that show (hearing loss, nausea, loss of bowel control), it most likely would have been totally worth it.
But back to Romeo and Juliet--gut aside, why wasn't I paying attention to it? Here I was, sitting in a kickass seat at the Orpheum, watching and listening to people play music, and I felt this disconnect. Was it because my primary way of enjoying live music usually meant standing up close to the stage, sans earplugs, just totally excited to be there? I looked around at the audience: everybody was sat down, motionless, looking at the stage just like I was. (The lady in front of Manday, fourth row right, was actually watching the thing through binoculars, which struck me as a little odd.) However, they were probably getting a lot more out of the experience than I was. Or was it just because no matter what, classical music was always going to be background music for me, so much so that even when I was watching it being performed live, I couldn't help but zone out? It was nice and I was enjoying it, yes, but it didn't exactly move me. It was just there.
Two encores later (one encore was understandable, but two had me clutching my gut and wondering if cellists didn't get groupies. Leave the audience wanting more--after all, you still have a whole season!) and we were back in the slow procession towards washrooms and exits. I was tired didn't feel like I had anything to say, and dying to see the interior of a washroom stall--but curiously, Manday didn't really have anything to say, either. Strange, because most music fans I know can and usually will talk at great lengths about music, especially something they just saw. But then, since I was about an inch away from falling asleep, I wasn't the most responsive person in the world. So he might have said something, but it would have been totally lost on me.
The rest of the evening dragged and flew according to traffic patterns and the slow escape from the top floor of a parking garage. But I was far too tired to do anything but yawn and anticipate falling asleep in my bed.
"A few minutes," I echoed. There was one place I wanted--nay, needed--to visit before we found our seats. But before I knew it, we were already through the doors and being led down the aisle to our fifth-row seats. Despite the rumblings of my gut, we were going to have to wait for intermission to use the bathroom. So long as my gut could keep quiet, things were going to be okay.
Of course, when it's full, my gut can't keep quiet. Gurgle! Rumble! Roar! Grumble! Ooof! Shplotnik! I'm trying to enjoy this, the opening night of the VSO's 2008 Season, but my gut seems intent on being the gastrointestinal equivalent of Aimee Mann by way of Don Martin. Hush hush, keep it down now, voices carry, I thought to myself. Meanwhile, Manday seemed to be chuckling at something--was it me? My gut? If I weren't so wrapped up in my body's noises and this weren't such a classy place, I'd have started quoting Joe Pesci in Goodfellas. Instead, I tried to focus on the Orchestra-as-accompanied-by-my-gut.
When intermission came, I wanted to race up the aisle and into the bathroom. What actually happened was a traffic jam of the elderly, caning and shuffling their way up the aisle. Yeah, yeah, I know, help the aged, you're going to be that old some day--but my gut wanted relief as soon as possible, and my mouth needed hydration. Miraculously, I managed to make it up the aisle, into the line for the loo, into the stall, and to the concession stand and back to my seat before the bells rang for the final time and the doors closed.
And then, just as Bramwell Tovey was rambling on about Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet suite, my gut started to complain again. It was as if it had declared, "Loud and discordant? I'll show this Prokokiev composition loud and discordant!" A shame, because I was looking forward to this, and now what I was really looking forward to were the mandolins at the halfway point. I enjoyed the suite, yes--but feel that my gut ruined the experience somewhat. But what doesn't it ruin?
Throughout the suite, I wondered why my gut hated music so much. After I got my diagnosis, my gig-going stopped. As most of my money went towards meds, I stopped buying records--or at the very least, I didn't buy nearly as many. I began to think that maybe it was a good thing that My Bloody Valentine didn't play a date here on their reunion tour. But then I remembered that whatever would have happened at that show (hearing loss, nausea, loss of bowel control), it most likely would have been totally worth it.
But back to Romeo and Juliet--gut aside, why wasn't I paying attention to it? Here I was, sitting in a kickass seat at the Orpheum, watching and listening to people play music, and I felt this disconnect. Was it because my primary way of enjoying live music usually meant standing up close to the stage, sans earplugs, just totally excited to be there? I looked around at the audience: everybody was sat down, motionless, looking at the stage just like I was. (The lady in front of Manday, fourth row right, was actually watching the thing through binoculars, which struck me as a little odd.) However, they were probably getting a lot more out of the experience than I was. Or was it just because no matter what, classical music was always going to be background music for me, so much so that even when I was watching it being performed live, I couldn't help but zone out? It was nice and I was enjoying it, yes, but it didn't exactly move me. It was just there.
Two encores later (one encore was understandable, but two had me clutching my gut and wondering if cellists didn't get groupies. Leave the audience wanting more--after all, you still have a whole season!) and we were back in the slow procession towards washrooms and exits. I was tired didn't feel like I had anything to say, and dying to see the interior of a washroom stall--but curiously, Manday didn't really have anything to say, either. Strange, because most music fans I know can and usually will talk at great lengths about music, especially something they just saw. But then, since I was about an inch away from falling asleep, I wasn't the most responsive person in the world. So he might have said something, but it would have been totally lost on me.
The rest of the evening dragged and flew according to traffic patterns and the slow escape from the top floor of a parking garage. But I was far too tired to do anything but yawn and anticipate falling asleep in my bed.